Ophelia
by Missie DuCaine
Summary: Ophelia was a bride of God. But she listened when the bean sidhe told her that she was wasted on God. OC


_Okay, look. It's an OC. I know. I feel no shame, it was written for mindless self-indulgence, and decided to post it, because I liked it. If you like it… I'm glad. If not… well, I had fun with it at least._

Ophelia was a bride of God.

And then she quit.

Two years into her life as Sister Mary Ophelia, she was sitting on the steps of the convent, watching the evening sky while she was supposed to be reading her texts when an inhuman, painfully low and guttural scream broke across the night air. Though every other woman behind the walls hid, she stood – and sought the sound.

The woman she found, screaming, in the woods, did not stop when she saw her. She smiled, and screamed _more_.

Then, when her screams finally ended, she reached out to place her hand over Ophelia's heart, and said calmly, "You're talents are wasted on God, child."

And then she disappeared.

And Ophelia knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that if the _bean sidhe_, the banshee herself, was telling her this, then maybe she ought to pay attention.

Five years later, when this all started, she had been in America for four years, and working as a bartender for three.

"Dean… would you concentrate for a minute?"

Ophelia looked up at the conversation at the end of her bar, where two young men were arguing – or rather, _one_ was arguing, and the other was just sitting there, a stupid grin and an exasperated sigh on his face. Both were rather attractive… _brothers_. She decided. The irritation on the one's brow, and the anxiously guarded posture of the other didn't speak to lovers, nor even close friends. Yet their relationship was clearly close… just not intimate. Brothers it was.

"Sam… issue over." The relaxed brother answered, gesturing to Ophelia, who headed towards them, calmly. "It was nothing."

"Dean… you're the one who always stresses over this stuff! And now you're not stressing over anything! You're completely cool with this, and she was totally _not normal_!"

Ophelia leaned on her hip on the bar, looking down at the brothers. _Leather jackets, plaid shirts, jeans… but they're not just country boys, they're too well groomed for that. Square cut, clean nails. Already decided they weren't gay. No… can't scratch that one yet. Still, not metro, neither. Leather notebook… someone has a major case of note-taking. _"Can I 'elp ye, boy-o's?"

Dean smiled brightly at her. She could feel his eyes travelling over the carrot curls, the aproned chest, the hip on the bar, the freckles and pale skin. She could care less. She'd left the habit behind for a reason.

"Can we get two beers? House'll do."

"Sure about that, lad?" she asked, amused. _Some idiots don't pay attention, and chicken out_. "Irish bar, mate. House beer be an Irish stoat."

Dean didn't even look like he had to consider the question. "One house beer for me, then, and some American piss for my brother."

_Knew it._

The boy called Sam just rolled his eyes, and flipped open the book, flipping irritably through the pages, as though he expected the book to hold the answer, but had no clue where it was, or even what the question was in the first place. When she retrieved the bottle of generic "American piss" for him, he just nodded absently, still flipping. Tilting her head a little, she examined the page, amused. She wasn't sure what he was doing, exactly, looking up Tengu, but he was on the wrong continent.

Rolling her eyes, she then set the glass of stoat in front of Dean, watching as the young man drank it. To her grudging admiration, he only winced slightly.

"So, what's a fine young thing like you doing mouldering away in a bar like this?" Dean asked, clearly thinking he was being clever.

Ophelia glanced down the bar, and decided that it wasn't busy enough to matter. "Ownin' it."

"Oh." He looked awkward for a moment, then shrugged, gulping down too much of the stoat in one go. "Well, that's must be… nice."

"I'm a fan," she agreed, amused, crossing her arms. "Now, what abouts yer brother doin' there, with that there book? Surely he's not hopin' to find 'imself a _tengu_ round these parts… they don't frequent much o' the world outside o' Japan."

Dean looked up sharply, eyes wide.

"Oh, doncha look so surprised, now. Ye thought the two o' ye were the only one in the world that knew there's more than meets the eye? Well, that's stupid." She snorted, leaning over to look at the book. Now he had moved on to harpies, but he wasn't looking at the book, he was watching her. "Ah, _those_ ye might find one or two more o' round 'ere."

"You're a hunter?" Sam asked, sounding amazed.

"Ye don't have to _hunt_ to know abou' the others, lad." Ophelia uncrossed her arms, flicking her dishcloth across the counter in front of them. "Sometimes ye just have ta have yer eyes open. Speakin' o open eyes… yer on the wrong page. Whatcha need is the _ghul_. Not ghoul, like yer ghost things… _ghul_. Watch that girl o yers, and ye'll see somethin' odd… ass hoofprints, 'stead of foots."

Dean sneered. "No offense, but she's _not_ a ghul."

Ophelia snorted, amused. Turning to Sam, she informed him calmly, "Yer brother be an idiot."

Sam snorted, shaking his head as he flipped through more pages of the notebook. "Tell me about it."

Dean ignored them both, loftily, instead turning to his stoat, and in turn, twisting on his stool to look out at the body of the smoky bar. Smoking laws had been passed in New York for years, but not for her. No one had ever attempted to enforce an anti-smoking law in _her _bar.

"Ach, right shame, too… ghul's change a man. Sleep with one of them… och. You _may_ live. If yer unlucky. They're an old of _jinn_, evil ones. More'n normal, even. Look like a fine lass… but she'll rip out yer 'eart, an' eat it, lad." She addressed Dean's back, knowing that despite his attempts to act as though he wasn't paying any attention, he was hearing every word of her thick Irish brogue. "If'n ye live, boy-o, yer gonna wish ye 'adn't. God's 'onest truth. She make ye _hunger_. _Crave_ 'er. Even if ye hunt 'er, and ye kill 'er… yer still gonna hunger. Ye _need_ 'er, or more like 'er. Desperate like. Ye'd go _mad_, love, wit' need, wit' desire."

Sam frowned, looking up at her thoughtfully. Very, very slowly, Dean turned to look up at her, considering her freckled covered face. Ophelia smirked back in amusement. She'd been dealing with his type – hunters – most all of her life. It's why she'd fled to God when she was seventeen, and it was precisely why the _bean sidhe_ had told her to leave.

"Questions? Comments? Concerns?" she smirked.

Sam looked up from the notebook again as Ophelia stepped quietly into the room, bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor. She was fairly sure that this was a result of his years of training, not of her ineptitude at silence. She had no doubts of that power of hers.

"Hi." He said, and turned back to the pages. "You were lying."

Ophelia smirked, and sat across from him at the table, arms crossed on the hardwood surface, pale, smooth, freckled flesh a strange contrast to pitted, pitch dark ancient wood. "I know."

"Ghul's don't twist people to wanting them." Sam frowned. "In fact… they don't even want to sleep with them. They just want to eat them. They tempt them, but they _never_ sleep with them. They're disgusted by humans… they're not like succubus'."

"I'm aware," she answered, calmly.

Sam sighed. "You have no gifts, do you?"

"Ach. _That_ I did _not_ lie about. I have seen the _bean sidhe_. I _have_ treaded along the low roads ta Scotland, and lot myself in the land of the fae. For a _year_, though only a day passed 'ere, on this side. I walk among the livin' and the dead, and in my gifts, I told ye the truth. I _can _reverse spell effects, bewitchments."

"Except that it wasn't needed."

"Mmm. Per'aps. Matter o' 'pinion, really…. I think it was needed. Still. S'not like it was terrible, was it? All curses are lifted, there's nary a spell on either o' ye… surely ye can't be angry 'bout that."

He sighed slightly, flipping to another page. "No…."

"An' I _was_ right." She smirked slightly. "Yer a _wild thing_."

Sam sighed, then looked up as the bedroom door opened again, and Dean sauntered slowly out, stretching widely. "Mm. Morning."

"Oh God, Dean, put on some pants," Sam flushed, looking away.

"Why? S'not like you've never seen it before." Dean rolled his eyes. "Like, oh I dunno, _last night_?"

"G'mornin' love." Ophelia smiled, winking at him. "I think yer Sam's repressin'."

Dean frowned, considering this. "Dunno why… he doesn't have a problem with _you_ walking around naked."

"Ah, but I have somethin' ye don't," she winked. "They're called _breasts_, love. Sam, the silly dear, likes them better than not. So as much as he enjoyed our activities last night – and I truly don't believe that Sam would be silly 'nough to pretend that 'e did not enjoy the activities of last night… 'e'd probably prefer to pretend that 'e had sex with _me_, and someone… other than 'is brother." She winked at Dean, amused as all hell. "But I took off any curses, n well… I had a _great_ amount of fun. Will you all be comin' back again?"

Dean smirked. "As often as possible, you little Scottish minx."

Sam snorted, shaking his head.

"What?" Dean blinked.

"Irish, love." She smirked again, winking. "I wouldn' wan' ta make that mistake often… _some_ Irish take offense at that, if ye can imagine such a thing."

Dean shrugged. "Tomato, tomatoe, right?"

"Not really." She answered, standing.

"Coffee?"

"Tea?" Sam asked, curiously.

"Me?" Dean added, grinning.

"Wanker." Ophelia smirked. "S'a good thing yer cute."


End file.
